


Penny-Wise

by carboncopies, Rindle



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Crowley to the Rescue (Good Omens), Fluff, Gen, Humor, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, Podfic, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Length: 0-10 Minutes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-09-29 13:29:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20436812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carboncopies/pseuds/carboncopies, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rindle/pseuds/Rindle
Summary: Aziraphale has made a very comfortable life for himself on Earth. A little too comfortable, some might say.





	Penny-Wise

  
_cover art by [carboncopies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carboncopies/profile)_

**Listen**  
  
_(or click [here](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2019/Penny-Wise.mp3) for mobile streaming)_

**Author:** [Rindle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rindle/profile)

**Reader:** [carboncopies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carboncopies/profile)

**Length:** 9:22 (plus :30 of bloopers at the end)

**Downloads:** [mp3](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2019/Penny-Wise.mp3) | [m4b](https://www.filefactory.com/file/5p7hz491r9od/Penny-Wise.m4b)  
_(right click to save-as)_

* * *

"Fell!" someone bellowed. It was a police sergeant, being unnecessarily loud as he strolled up to the large holding cell.

"Do excuse me, won't you? I believe I’m being summoned." Aziraphale politely extricated himself from one of his cellmates; a Mr. Neely. The gentleman seemed intent on sharing the personal details of his life. But, as Aziraphale had survived six thousand years on Earth without being aware of the dislike Mr. Neely’s mother bore for Mr. Neely’s girlfriend, he decided the rest of the story could wait a while longer.

He approached the sergeant, a wall of iron bars between them. “I am Mr. Fell,” he introduced himself to the stranger.

“No shit, Sherlock,” the man replied.

Aziraphale smiled, lightly touching a manicured hand to his chest. “Fell,” he gently corrected. “A. Z. Fell.”

With a tired eye roll, his jailer grabbed the key ring at his belt. It stretched forward on a miniature wire reel.

“That’s clever. You’ll never lose your keys that way, will you?” Aziraphale offered cheerfully. Compliments were a good way to make friends, he’d always found, but the man just shook his head and opened the cell door.

“Your attorney’s here,” the sergeant informed him, waving Aziraphale out of the cell before locking it again.

“I have an attorney? How nice.” Aziraphale happily accompanied the sergeant to a small, private room. Inside, Crowley was sat in a folding chair next to a plain, wooden table. He was practically reclining in the uncomfortable looking contraption, facing the door with his long legs stretched out in front of him and an elbow slung over the back.

“Crowley! My dear fellow, what brings you here?” Aziraphale pulled out a chair and sat across from his friend. They hadn’t seen each other recently, and it was always pleasant to catch up.

“What brings me here?” Crowley demanded. “I've got a question for you, first. What in the Devil’s name are you doing here? Didn’t get enough of prison life the last time?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale scoffed, waving away his friend's concern. “I’m sure this is only a small misunderstanding,” he assured.

“Is it!” Crowley spun on his seat to face him. “Do you even know what you’re charged with?” He jabbed a finger at the table. “Tax evasion, for a start. They plan to hold you on that while they do some investigating. They think you’re a counterfeiter.”

“A what? Do you mean to say they’ve discovered that I’m not one of them? But I’ve been here for thousands of years and they’ve never noticed before. Oh, how very inconvenient. I like London. My shop is in the perfect location. It’s close to everything and very few customers stop in to bother me anymore.” Aziraphale sighed, turning his face away and sitting up a little less straight. “I don’t want to move. Some of my favorite restaurants are here. This is dreadful,” he lamented.

There was no immediate reply, which was unusual. Crowley’s words weren’t always helpful, but there was never a shortage of them. Aziraphale looked at him curiously.

His friend was gazing back from behind the dark lenses of his favorite sunglasses. He was slouched at the table, cheek resting on a fist and lips quirked in a small, indulgent smile. One that Aziraphale had seen directed at him countless times before.

“All done?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale gave a small nod. “I’ve said my piece."

“Good. You’ve got it all wrong, Angel. It’s not you they think is counterfeit, and you’re certainly not moving out of London. I like it here. Great nightlife. Loads to do. Temptations out the bloody wazoo. But that’s not what this is about.”

“Well, what is it then? I’ve been here for hours already. They’ve locked me in a cell with a number of disreputable looking persons, one of whom has a mother who I’m fairly certain is one of your sort, so I'd just as soon not wait around to meet her. And to top it all off, it’s almost tea time!” he whinged.

“What would you like me to do about it, Angel? Order takeaway?” Crowley groused. He mimed making a phone call. “Hello, Ritz London? Yes, I know you normally prefer your customers to dine in, but Angel here is a bit tied up and was wondering if you might send ‘round his usual to the jailhouse?!”

“Do you think they would?” Aziraphale perked up considerably at the thought, only to have his hopes dashed when the imaginary call was rudely cut off. “Whatever this is, it is obviously a misunderstanding,” he insisted, shooting a meaningful glance across the table. “Can’t you simply…”

“What, Angel. Can’t I simply what? Miracle all your problems away and take you to tea?”

Aziraphale’s shoulders rose in a small shrug. “Essentially, yes,” he agreed.

“It’s not that easy this time,” Crowley sighed, rubbing his temples.

“Whyever not?”

“Because this time, it’s about money.” Crowley’s lips curled in distaste. “If there’s one thing humans get worked up about, it’s money. As in, they want it, and they want to know who’s got it and who hasn’t,” he explained. “If they think you’ve got it, they want a cut of it. And if they think you’ve got it when you shouldn’t?” He stared his friend right in the eye. “They throw you in jail.”

Aziraphale was trying to grasp his friend's full meaning, though he wasn't sure he quite followed. “Humanity’s greed for material possessions dates back practically to the Garden,” he slowly replied. “But what has that to do with me? I don’t need any of their money. I can just make my own,” he argued.

“There it is!” Crowley cried triumphantly, slapping a hand on the table. “That’s the part they’re having trouble with.”

"Oh. Oh, dear." Chin dropping as his situation became clear, Aziraphale gazed pitifully up at Crowley. The demon was his dearest friend, after all, strange as that may be. They’d been looking out for each other for millennia, now, and had gotten each other out of all sorts of scrapes.

“What’re you -? No! Do not give me that face, Angel,” Crowley waved a vigorous finger over the table, determined to hold his own. “You’ve really landed in it this time. Humans take money very seriously. Do you have any idea how many of them would sell their souls for the tiniest bit of scratch? My lot stopped bothering with that line of temptation back in the twelfth century, because there was no challenge in it.”

Aziraphale’s head tilted sadly to one side, his eyes shining.

“Stop it! Stop it! Oh, all right!” Crowley threw his hands up in exasperation, glaring at the adorable grin suddenly aimed his way. Losing these arguments, which he somehow always did, was almost worth it for that smile. He huffed crossly and snapped his fingers.

Moments later, the door opened. “All right, Mr. Fell, you’re free to go.” His arresting officer walked in, a folder of documents in her hands. “If we need anything else from you, we’ll be in touch.”

Smiling brightly at the woman who’d been only too happy to lock him behind bars earlier that day, Aziraphale stood, tugging down his waistcoat and straightening his jacket. “Thank you, Inspector. You’ve been most kind.”

Crowley shook his head at the boundless sweetness of his angel. Kind, indeed. "Come on, then." He pushed lazily to his feet and swaggered to the door.

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale answered before turning back to the woman. She was busy frowning down at his paperwork. “Thank you again, Inspector,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, my… solicitor and I,” he glanced over her shoulder and winked broadly at his friend, “have an appointment. At the Ritz, I believe?” He turned big, eagerly hopeful eyes once again on the put-upon demon.

Crowley sighed dramatically and gave a jerk of the head. “Come on, Angel. Let’s go have tea.”

~*~

The end


End file.
